


Abelas

by CN7



Series: All I Ask of You [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Romance, they're in love even when it's hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 22:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13774011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CN7/pseuds/CN7
Summary: The worst has come to pass for Clan Lavellan. They made their stand in bravery while hundreds of miles away one of their daughters makes her own. Without them. An orphan.





	Abelas

"I thought you should know," Cullen concludes. Eyes somber and downcast, he glares more sharply into the war table than the engraved daggers brutally protruding from its surface.

Josephine scans the commander's terrible report with quaking hands—oh, she wishes they would stop—once, twice, three times with a heavier heart each read. There is a weight compressing her chest, which seems so counterintuitive to the rapid blood flow in her ears and the violent thread of her pulse. She wants to throw her tablet in a fit of rage, watch it snap against the stone wall, fling curses at the possessed nobles of Wycome and the Maker himself for the death of the innocent and the virtuous on His hands. The Antivan people—and Josephine in particular—have passion in their blood. Looming beside her friends and colleagues, she fears she will burst into tears. Not for herself, but for her lover, because Josephine knows this formal letter of apology will hurt her most of all.

Dignity and calculation, though scarcely found within her frantic thoughts, win control of the display on her face. Barely. Her behavior grows unnaturally instinctive, diplomatic. 

Only because a decision must be made. 

A decision she is terrified will snuff out the delightful glow of sunshiny warmth which clings to Ellana even in the face of her greatest strife. It is a rare, special person who can carry out the difficult decisions of the world without losing an ounce of determination or optimism, who agonizes over sentencing criminals to death for their crimes and pities their misfortune, who walks first into the line of fire and brings her friends sentimental gifts when the world is all but ending. She could so simply choose to ignore them all, but the Inquisitor is a special person. 

"Would you like me to inform Inquisitor Lavellan?" Josephine inquires flatly, scribbling notes to be delivered to allied noble houses surrounding Wycome. Indeed, she must be sure the Inquisition has an accurate tally of casualties.

Leliana's head snaps up for the first time since Cullen sprung the news upon them. Guilt flashes crinkles the feint lines around her eyes, and Josephine wonders if she knew. 

Leliana is a master of passivity to most. Josephine thinks it an injustice to attribute her friend's success as a bard to the Orlesian's masks, but she now finds the clear answer to the suspicion she has had for months. This colder, withdrawn Leliana wears her hood so low because she still cannot completely erase the emotions from her face. After all these years, Josephine flexes an old muscle and sees the disappointment, frustration, and protectiveness—a threat to Cullen at the mere suggestion he allow Josephine to bear even an ounce of this shame and burden.

Cullen is a man of honor, and he requires no such encouragement. "No, this was my failure. I will assume responsibility."

"How very ominous and uncomfortable," a voice in the doorway jests. 

As much as her presence floods the atmosphere with renewed tension, Josephine wants to imprint this Ellana in her mind forever: happy with a wide smile on full lips that put so many hearts at ease, funny—oh, so innappropriately funny at times. How she had descended into giggles for hours over the sentencing of Duchess Florianne's skull to community theater—and so mesmerizing my beautiful.

"One of you, do say something, or I'll feel most unwelcome. If that isn't already apparent,” Ellana teases, and it is only then Josephine realizes all of them are glued dumbly to the floor.

"Inquisitor," Leliana greets with the semblance of pleasantry. "My agents report they have successfully planted Three-Eyes' devices on Raider ships. Their admiral quickly mistook them for Venatori magic, and the armada are now keeping enemy vessels busy. Three-Eyes also sends his compliments."

Ellana's shoulders slack and her lips loosen their purse, eased by her spymaster’s report. Gambling against pirates catching sight of Inquisition scouts in disguise was a risk, but the similarity of Ellana and Leliana’s tactical minds is a striking puzzle to be proud of. If terrifying. Josephine knows Ellana takes her own advice to heart, hangs on her every word—the Inquisitor trusts all of her advisors in one capacity or another—even going so far as to take the painfully complicated route to nullify the contract on her life when she could have simply disposed of it.

It is Leliana, however, whom she has the most synchronized sense of self. 

In fact, it was the spymaster whom Josephine knows Ellana looked to for reason at a time where she was too blinded by feelings to forego Josephine's dangerously stubborn diplomacy. The lady ambassador will never apologize for attempting to preserve life, but she does still feel the guilt of endangering Inquisition personnel and the distress it caused those who care for her. Josephine is well aware of Ellana’s temptation to respond in kind, but their relationship has always been supported by mutual respect of each other’s wishes.

"Good," the elf says before tapping her chin in thought, pale eyes scouring the map. "Do you think the Raiders will ever uncover the truth?"

"Tis unlikely, no? For now, their focus lies solely on eliminating Corypheus' naval arm. If they do ever take the time to examine the gears more closely, I do not believe we would bear much resentment for it. Pirates value their independence, we simply enabled them." 

Leliana's tactics are subtle and direct. Clean when possible. Messy only by necessity. Surprise is her speciality.

Josephine does her best to use words and words alone. Words filled with grace and charm. Sometimes quiet, soft, and gentle. Sometimes sharp, forceful, and threatening. It is a bard's weapon, but never the knife in the night. Such is how she informs the Inquisitor of her successful prodding at the clerics to cease and desist their pursuit of finding fault with the University of Orlais and their encouragement of liberal thinking amongst the youth.

Cullen can be much more like a man who takes a hammer to a nail for each problem. Straightforward and blunt. With his military prowess so forceful and swift, several months ago, Josephine would have expected his mannerisms to be the same. Except in that times she has instead discovered his withdrawn gentleness, and it is with a soft voice and sympathetic eyes that he turns in his report to Inquisitor. He shoves that terrible letter across the war table. Distaste is set in his clenched jaw, and he pries his fingers away with a brimming sadness in his shoulders.

Ellana's large eyes go round at the seal and her hands freeze at her sides. She stares at the parchment as though it may burn her, and it is obvious she suspects its contents. It was she who sent her forces into the Free Marches. She who marched on Wycome twice to protect those who lived in and around the city: humans, elves, and dwarves alike. And it was she who knew the crazed nobles suffered red lyrium withdrawal that would send them into a paranoid fervor.

They all know.

Josephine loathes how she lacked council when it came to protecting Wycome and Clan Lavellan. 

"I'm sorry," the commander whispers.

"Tell Lieutenant Chambreterre to withdraw, Cullen. Commend her service and aptitude, and make it clear the Inquisition appreciates her efforts even under the loss of the city and the Dalish." Inquisitor Lavellan throws about orders with a strain that unnerves Josephine. The words roll bitterly off her tongue. She avoids eye contact with all of her advisors. "They did their duty. As did you all. Now, I think that's about as much business I can handle for one evening. Please"—a quiver in her bottom lip—"excuse me."

Cullen and Leliana's farewell shapes a title, filled with respect and resolve. It falls on an empty space. Ellana is out the door in an instant.

Josephine unceremoniously finds herself trailing behind in an unspoken—and perhaps unwelcome—beck and call, notes and quill haphazardly strung aside. They fall to the floor with a deafening clang, but not so loudly as the careful padding of the elf ahead of her. 

Willpower alone forces her not to outright give chase through the great hall where esteemed guests from across Thedas lurk, sip on wine, and gossip amongst themselves. 

The Inquisitor is quick and nimble, and her long legs take great strides past them. 

They take offense. 

"Was that the Inquisitor?" one Orlesian voice hisses. "She did not even stop to visit with us."

"And Lady Montilyet," another notes conspiratorially. “No wonder. The ambassador is usually much more polite. The rumors must be true if they're both retiring to the Inquisitor's chambers."

Josephine keeps her eyes straight on Ellana's retreating form, but feels her cheeks burn dark. The presumption, to suggest . . .. She has not . . .. They have been more than capable of occupying their time spent together appropriately. Ellana has been a perfect gentlewoman.

"Yes, please do forgive the Inquisitor and Lady Ambassador for not taking the time out of their hectic schedules to spend their one moment of freedom with you gentlemen,” Lord Pavus huffs. He lounges back in his chair at the edge of the dining table, haughty and delightfully arrogant, taking in every individual who enters the massive room. "Comte, have you visited the tailor since you've been at Skyhold? I'm sure he could let that vest out for you."

Josephine makes a mental note to send Dorian an entire bottle of whatever it is he's drinking, maybe even a key to the cellar.

Ellana slips through the slightest of openings to ascend her tower, but leaves the door ajar. Josephine realizes with a rush of affection Ellana could have easily slammed it shut in her face. Rude and hurtful as such an act might have been, she would have understood, but her lover is kind and lacks a bone of malice in her body. She wishes, or at least does not protest Josephine’s presence. So Lady Montilyet gracefully accepts the invitation to follow.

The ambassador has seen the inside of Inquisitor Lavellan's chambers on numerous occasion. She helped decorate it, after all. Truly she must flatter her own boldly Antivan tastes, but also her ability to read people and know Ellana's personal preference would likely hinge on the comforts of the outdoors. The pulled curtains provide dashing views of the moon and stars, flooding in a light that rivals that emitting from the fireplace. The flames are alive and well by the care of castle servants to keep the Inquisitor's room warm—a luxury Ellana once expressed an embarrassed gratitude for. 

Alas an oasis of privacy in a room so very meant to reflect the nature of its occupant must feel like the most foreign place in Thedas for the Dalish elf who is the last of her clan.

Said occupant spreads her arms and legs wide and leans heavily against her desk. Her breathes are quick, sharp, and cause her shoulders to rise and fall with unnatural haste. The sound is piercingly uneven. When she begins to sway, Josephine flies into action. She snatches her lover tightly against her chest, cushioning Ellana's descent when her knees buckle. With careful hands she guides her to the cool tile floor, and rocks. 

When her own flair of panic ebbs away, Josephine finds Ellana's eyes dry. Beads of cold perspiration dot her forehead and all color has drained from her face. Her expression contorts as her body quakes violently in Josephine's arms, and she clutches wildly at left chest as though it pains her.

"I'm sorry," she stutters between wheezes. “My hands and feet just became . . . very numb."

"Deep breathes. In through your nose, out through your mouth," Josephine shushes her just like her governess had before her trip to Orlais as a girl. Just like she had coached herself at the bottom of the stairs . . . . After a moment, she brushes Ellana's bangs back and commends, "You made it all the way up the stairs without falling faint! You will never cease to amaze me."

Or worry me, she thinks.

She earns a hollow, half-hearted laugh, but nothing more, aside from the awful sound of heartbreak on the wind. The elf simply shakes in her arms.

So, she hums to drown it out. Old songs. 

One, a Nevarran ballad which—with dance—tells the tale of a fallen young dragon hunter and the necromancer who loved him even after death. It is sad and softly beautiful. She hopes one day, long from now when Ellana no longer finds herself an orphan with the fate of Thedas on her shoulders, Josephine might take her to watch a performance. 

Another, a sailor's hymn she learned from merchants at the port back home. Chanted by men and women with sun and wind-whipped faces who—with calloused hands—tethered ropes, strung up sails, and unloaded boxes of treasure. A blessing and promise of adventure on the sea with roots in Rivain, Antiva, and so distinctly pirate.

And the last, a lullaby, sung by the Dalish boy in the gardens one crisp, lonely evening. 

"My father . . . and the keeper . . . that's their favorite," Ellana whispers, delivering a gentle squeeze to Josephine's arm.

Limp with exhaustion, head in her lap, Josephine does not try to move her lover anywhere. She will gladly sit upright with her back against an uncomfortable, hard wooden fixture if it means peace for Ellana. However much is truly possible. 

Josephine's fingers run delicate circles up and down Ellana's spine, gently scratching between her shoulders, smoothing out the disheveled vest. She pulls her close. Loosely enough for her to catch her breath, tight enough to never really let her go. 

"Will you tell me about them, darling?" she whispers in a way that makes her lover sink a little bit deeper into her.

Ellana is quiet for so long. Josephine does not press for answers even though she is absolutely certain Ellana has not fallen asleep. Despite the obviously hypnotizing lull of Josephine's fingers in her hair. 

She parts and closes her full lips a few times, but no fragment of sound or memory is pieced aloud. 

Finally, long past the time Josephine gives up hope of a response, Ellana tells Josephine of all the hands that once braided her hair. 

She speaks first of her father and his artistic inclinations. Softer, gentler than any other as he hummed ancient lullabies with such a sweet voice even the halla would come to listen. He taught all of his children music. 

Arlen, the youngest, truly had his vocal prowess. 

It was never Ellana's voice to inherit anyways, she says. 

She still does not know the alienage elf from whom she earned her pale eyes, bronze skin, and golden hair. But she wants to believe she inherited Talwen's ability to love. 

And her mother's sense of justice. 

Saoirse was nothing if not fair, Ellana tells Josephine in sparse words. Level-headed and perhaps the wisest of all Lavellan. 

Meera, her elder sister, was their mother’s spitting image. Neither emotion nor bias could sway her. Not even when a few of the older apprentices had sneered and called Ellana a flat-ear as a newcomer. Meera had only hung back and allowed Ellana to prove her worth with a bow. Josephine can hear the pride in her voice from the day she won their approval, and a bittersweet gratitude to her sister for allowing her to come into her own. 

Ellana claims she will miss them in time. 

For now the wound is too fresh to understand, and has only been a dull homesickness up until this evening. 

Children expect their parents to pass on at some point. Such is the unfortunate law of time and age. 

Except, no one ever expects the mortality of her siblings. 

She says it was never meant to be because life becomes very difficult to imagine without the idea of their complete companionship. And now, Ellana realizes it is a much more painful reality. 

"I always knew my parents would die one day," Ellana whispers. Her voice is so foreign and flat, Josephine hardly recognizes it. "My sister and brother, though . . . . I thought I would—. It was always supposed to be me.”

Josephine's fingers continue their silent dance, willing Ellana to stay open with her painful words. Because she knows she would require the same should the death have been Yvette, Antoine, Laurien, or Julian. She only doubts she would ever lose them all at once, and she does not envy Ellana whose eyes are hollow and distant.

Somewhere in her mind, Josephine makes a mental note to confirm that she will attend Yvette's showcase in the summer. 

Ellana says no more. She pulls her head back once to stare up at Josephine with a fire and flurry of restrained thoughts and feelings that are so frustratingly hard to read, and opens her mouth only to bite down on her full bottom lip. 

Whatever words are lost on Ellana's carefully precise tongue, Josephine does the impossible and tries not to fret over them. Instead, she places long kisses against her fingertips and breathes in the scent of pine and winter clawing against the paned glass, and hopes tomorrow brings warmer weather.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll tell you bad jokes at https ://dickeybbqpit .Tumblr. com


End file.
